Silent City

by Alex Segura

  Pete looked at Emily and nodded, then straightened up in his seat. She was crying, but looking away from him. He could see her lips quivering.

  “I know exactly what to make of this,” Pete said, his voice cold. “It all fell together. I know what to do about it now.”

  “What?” she said. “Do about it? Are you fucking kidding me? You do nothing. You say nothing. You should have left this alone from the beginning. And you didn’t.”

  She almost yelled the last sentence. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked out his window.

  “Don’t lecture me,” Pete said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Don’t lecture me,’” Pete repeated. They were looking at each other now. “Don’t lecture me, because I know exactly what I’ve done. I know exactly what I’ve lost. And while I guess on some level, I should be thankful you’re here—it doesn’t give you the right to pass judgment on me like you’re some kind of saint.”

  Pete watched Emily’s face contort, as if in slow motion, anger taking over and eliminating the tears she’d cried for Mike.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Emily said.

  “This isn’t about Mike,” Pete said, his teeth gritted. He was tired. He figured he’d regret this later, but whatever dullness his drinking had created, whatever filters had been in place when it came to Emily were suddenly gone, and Pete felt a door opening he’d never wanted to touch. “This isn’t about me. This is about us.”

  Emily recoiled, leaning against the driver’s side door.

  “Whoa, what?” she said. “Seriously? I thought we were past that, Pete. It’s been almost a year. You’re going to bust out the ‘us’ topic now? Mike’s not even in the ground.”

  “Stop bringing him up,” Pete said firmly. “Just stop it. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of pretending we’re buddies and I’m some kind of clown college fuck-up. I’m not perfect, and neither are you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Where is any of this coming from?”

  “I’m just tired,” Pete said, his body suddenly feeling heavy. “And you didn’t have to be here. You didn’t have to pick me up. You just did it to be right—to be the adult. To grab poor Pete by the arm and try to get him on the right path. Well, fine. Thank you, angelic, sweet Emily. Thank you, Carlos Broche. Thank you, one and all. Thank you for saving me once again from myself.”

  “Oh, and it’s so easy to be your friend,” Emily snapped back, her eyes red and voice raw. “It’s a walk in the park watching you slowly drink away everything I liked about you, and go from someone I was in love with to a creep. Yeah, I really love being your pal. I love acting important in front of you. Go fuck yourself.”

  Pete let out an exasperated sigh and continued. “I just find it amazing that you—after all we’ve been through and after how you left me literally holding the bag—can still act like some kind of moral authority,” Pete said. “It’s mind-boggling. I do not understand you, and I never will, and that’s part of the allure and part of the problem. I try and keep you in my life as desperately as I can, thinking that some kind of miracle might push us back into place, but that’s never going to happen. I know that. Deep inside, I know you’ll never want me the way I want you, or the way you used to want me. But you still dangle the carrot, and you still talk to me like I’m your stupid boyfriend. Well, I’m not. I’m barely even your friend.”

  Emily cleared her throat slowly. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said.

  “I don’t want you to say anything,” Pete said quickly. “I just want to go home and do what I need to do.”

  Emily started the car and kept her eyes looking forward. “Mike was your best friend,” she said, her voice calm—a forced serenity. “He cared about you. Please, for him, for me—just let this drop.”

  “I can’t. For Mike,” Pete said, “I have to see this to the end, for him.”

  “Then get out of the car,” Emily snapped.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Pete sat in his car in the parking lot of the Caballero Funeral Home. It was near Pete’s family home, in Westchester, off Bird Road and Galloway, where he’d grown up. They’d held his father’s service here, too, Pete recalled. The area had made a bit of resurgence in his day-to-day of late, Pete thought sadly. A few days had passed since Mike’s car had exploded in downtown Fort Lauderdale. A little over a week since his life went from an intriguing adventure to a miserable failure.

  He’d barely been home, instead taking Broche’s advice and staying at his father’s old house, which still hadn’t been sold although it was two years since his father’s death. He’d moved very little in—a bag of clothes, toiletries, and his father’s files. Pete unfastened his seatbelt and looked at the small crowd milling outside the funeral home. He recognized a few faces.

  It was odd living in the house, but also comforting. He hadn’t heard from Emily, aside from a curt voicemail explaining that she never wanted to speak to him or see him again. Pete understood. He’d put his closest friends in danger, then he’d inadvertently caused his friend’s death, all in one fell swoop. To Pete’s surprise, Broche had been unnervingly kind over the past few days. In what he’d dubbed a favor to Pete’s father, not to him, Broche had pulled a handful of strings and had called in a dozen favors to minimize Pete’s police entanglements. The Keys police dropped any charges and, aside from a dozen hours spent in the Fort Lauderdale police department, Pete had been very lucky. Mike’s death was still under investigation, but from what little Broche had told Pete, there were few leads and even fewer people actually looking at the leads. Pete closed his eyes. The idea that his friend would just die, with no retribution, made him angrier than he could really understand. Broche’s words haunted Pete: “I can’t think of any punishment that will make you feel worse.”

  He was probably right.

  He almost didn’t hear the tap on the passenger-side window. He looked over to see Amy, dressed casually for a funeral, Pete thought, and pointing to the door, motioning for him to let her in. He leaned over and clicked the door open. She slid into the passenger seat and nodded.

  “Attending the funeral remotely, I see?” she said. She put her purse on her lap and closed the door, and looked out the window quickly before turning back to Pete. “Good turnout for your friend.”

  Pete said nothing. The last time he’d seen Amy it hadn’t been the most pleasant exchange.

  She raised a hand quickly. “Don’t worry,” Amy said. “This isn’t going to be a message about how you should live your life. I just wanted to pop in and thank you for what you did for Kathy. I realize it wasn’t easy, and she’d probably be dead if you hadn’t stumbled down there.”

  “Has anyone heard from her?” he asked. “Is she alive?”

  “I haven’t heard from her since she called,” Amy said. “But I imagine she’s fine.”

  She didn’t elaborate. Pete figured she was lying, but had little incentive to press the issue. He was no longer concerned with Kathy. He’d found her and she was alive.

  “I’d hope so, what with the bag of cash she made off with.”

  “Oh come on, don’t start pouting,” Amy said, dismissively. “You’re acting like she stole it from your bank account. That was drug money.”

  “How’d you know it was drug money?”

  “What?”

  “The news never reported anything about the bag,” Pete said carefully. “They definitely didn’t say anything about Contreras’s drug ties. So, how’d you figure that?”

  Amy’s face went blank; she’d been caught. Pete could see the wheels turning in her head in an effort to explain the gaffe away. She tilted her head slightly.

  “You got me there,” Amy said. “I’ve talked to Kathy a few times. She’s fine, if you’re worried. And she does feel bad about how she left, especially after what you did for her.”

  “She has a funny way of showing gratitude,” Pete said.


  “You’re all the buzz at work,” Amy said, changing the subject. “Well, you and Kathy are. She’s been fired—hasn’t shown up and people know she’s alive. But your exploits have made for a lot of water cooler conversation.”

  “My dream fulfilled,” Pete said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—what do you want? I appreciate the visit and all, and I am genuinely glad Kathy’s living it up on the Contreras dime, but…”

  Amy cut him off. “I figured you’d be here,” she said. “And I wanted to pick your brain. With Kathy gone, we’re scrambling a bit for a new investigative reporter…”

  Now it was Pete’s turn to interrupt. “You’d think they’d take me back?”

  Amy stifled a laugh. “No, no, that’s not what I meant, sorry,” she said. “Let me finish. Now, Kathy’s gone, but I still have her notes about this entire ‘Silent Death’ thing—and I think it’s time we ran with it. But as an editor, I can’t just print suppositions and innuendo. Her notes are good, but I imagine you have some insight that I can add to her evidence and hopefully hammer something out in the next week or so. Blow the lid off this entire thing and give you and her some peace.”

  Pete scratched his head. Amy, for all her years of experience and police know-how, obviously wasn’t fully versed in how totally corrupt the Miami PD was, especially in relation to the Silent Death. He didn’t feel inclined to tell her, either. But the idea of a story hitting the Miami Times and forcing not only the Miami police but the powers above it to act sounded good. And if it meant Pete wouldn’t have to worry every time he woke up in the morning or every second he spent outside his house, then it’d be worth it.

  “From what I read in my dad’s files, and skimmed over in Kathy’s notes,” Pete said, “it all points to Contreras. The ties to Chaz, the drug money coming from upstate, and the front that is Casa Pepe’s. I’m not sure who else it could be.”

  “OK. Well, first off, I’m going to ignore that little tidbit that involves you somehow getting into Kathy’s notes,” Amy said. “Do you have access to your dad’s files? Aren’t those police property?”

  Pete shrugged. “I suppose. I found them in my dad’s stuff. He must have kept them.”

  “That’s amazing,” Amy said, her eyes widening. “Those would be hugely helpful. Do you think I’d be able to see them? Or even copy them?”

  Pete thought for a second before responding.

  “I’ll do anything at this point,” he said. “So, yes. If it means getting Contreras off the streets and bringing in the person that did this to Mike—and to me—then I’m all for it.”

  “That’s the thing, though,” Amy said. “I’m not totally sold on Contreras.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It just seems too easy,” Amy said, turning to look at the people entering the funeral home. “Maybe that’s just the editor in me. When a story’s too good, you have to question the basics, sometimes even the reporter. ‘Did they flourish this quote a tad?’ ‘Did they double-check these facts?’ Does your father say definitively that it’s Contreras?”

  “No,” Pete said. “If he had been sure, he would have arrested him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Pete gave her a confused look. “What do you mean?”

  “The Miami police aren’t exactly squeaky-clean,” she said. “And no offense to your father, who for all I know was a fine officer of the law, but he wasn’t exactly paired with the most respected partner.”

  “Carlos Broche?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about him?”

  “Chalk this one up to my gut, too,” Amy said. “But I never got much help from him when I was the cops reporter. About the same when I was editing the other cops folk. Never heard a good word about him.”

  “But never a bad one, either, right?” Pete said.

  “True, but after a few decades of reading and working with cops,” Amy said, “you start to get a sense for them. Anyway, I don’t know much about him, and my point is, even if your dad had the goods on Contreras, it would have been nearly impossible for him to have arrested him, with the department the way it is.”

  “His notes aren’t definitive,” Pete said. Maybe Amy knew more than she initially let on. “But I need to look at them again.” His mind flashed back to his few moments with the files, drunk and high off the adrenaline around the search for Kathy, unaware of the tragedy to come.

  He closed his eyes for a second.

  Amy reached for the door and clicked it open, turning to Pete.

  “If you do, let me know,” Amy said. “I’d love to look them over and see what they can do to help.”

  She passed him her card and nodded.

  “It’s a good thing,” Amy said. “We can make a difference for once. The paper can actually do some good for a change. Imagine what it would mean for this city to finally have this guy behind bars, huh?”

  “Yeah, what a wonderful world,” Pete said sarcastically. “I’ll let you know. It’s not like I’m swimming in appointments and meetings, anyway.”

  Amy gave him a pitying smile and left, closing the door quietly as she walked to her car, avoiding the ceremony. The dashboard display told him it was getting late.

  Pete reached for his car door but hesitated. He leaned back. He was parked in the far west corner of the lot. He could see the front door, but doubted anyone was looking far enough to notice him. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope addressed to him. It was from the Miami Times. A severance check. His suspension was not even over, but the paper had decided they didn’t want him back. Two months’ pay was what they deemed worthy. For the first time in his life, Pete was unemployed and with no prospects. He was alone, his two closest friends gone—one literally, another by choice. He couldn’t even go back to his apartment for fear a gangland killer would be waiting for him.

  “Fuck me,” Pete whispered to himself as he stepped out of his car. He could feel the eyes on him the second he reached the funeral home entrance. He walked past a cluster of strangers and stepped into the lobby. He saw Mike’s parents, Steve and Mary, huddled near the door of the chapel housing Mike’s dead body, whispering to each other and looking at Pete. He swallowed hard and walked over to them. They stopped talking suddenly and made eye contact as he approached.

  He’d met them a number of times over the decade he’d known Mike, but had never interacted with them beyond casual pleasantries. What did they know about Pete’s involvement in their son’s death?

  “Hello,” Pete said, never sure what to say in these situations. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am about what happened.”

  Pete noticed a flare of anger on Steve’s face, which quickly softened into sadness. Pete was surprised when he felt Steve enveloping him in a strong hug.

  “Pete,” he said. “Oh, Pete. We’re glad you made it. We were wondering where you were.”

  Pete felt another hand rubbing his back. Mike’s mother. They had no idea. He felt a sense of great relief, combined with shame.

  Pete pulled away from the hug.

  “I know,” he said, facing Mike’s parents.

  “It’s just hard to accept this happened.”

  “It was a terrible mistake,” Steve said, his deep baritone wavering slightly. “That boy never did anything to deserve that kind of death.”

  “We couldn’t even have an open casket,” Mary, sputtered, choking back tears as her husband pulled her into his large arms. She looked off toward the ceiling. “Oh Lord, how does this happen?”

  “I’m sorry,” Pete said, holding Mary’s hands. “There wasn’t a better person—a better friend.” Pete stopped talking, feeling himself begin to choke up. He didn’t want to cry anymore. “Spent” was the best way he could describe his life the last few days. Mike’s parents nodded furiously, hugging him and thanking him. His sense of shame quickly overwhelmed any relief he’d first felt.

  He was a liar.

  T
hey stepped back into the chapel just as Pete felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Broche there, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He looked tired. The last few days had been exhausting for everyone, not just for Pete.

  “Walk with me,” Broche said, heading toward the front of the funeral home. Pete followed. He saw Emily pop out of the chapel entrance. She looked at him for a split second, then turned away and went back in.

  Broche wove past the small group milling outside the funeral home and walked to the sidewalk before lighting up. Pete stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Kathy’s still AWOL,” Broche said. “I’m hearing rumblings from my informants that she had more money than she let on in that bag. She may be gone for good. We still have nothing on the explosion, though. No evidence—fingerprints, tire treads, witnesses, nada. This whole thing is a mess, you realize this?”

  Pete nodded. He was in no position to argue with the man that had basically saved what little life he had left. But he also wasn’t inclined to share the information he’d just gleaned from Amy, either. He waited for Broche to continue.

  “I need you to promise me you’re not going to get crazy with all the free time you have,” Broche said, taking a drag from his cigarette and looking at Pete. “Your friend is dead. From what I can tell, your other friend doesn’t think speaking to you is on her to-do list.”

  Pete paused for a second. He looked at Broche. His father had been a year younger than the 60-year-old detective, on the verge of cashing in his pension. Pete wondered if his father would have closed the case by now, if his health hadn’t forced him into early retirement and then killed him. Pete knew he wasn’t going to give up using what little resources he had to avenge Mike, but he wasn’t sure he could tell Broche that anymore. He’d expended what little goodwill he had left with the man.

  “Yeah, I’m done with this whole thing,” Pete said. “What about Contreras? Any sign of him?”